


That's All I've Ever Wanted

by CoLaLu24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional John Watson, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sad, Sharing a Bed, self harm (just a liiiittle bit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11756079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoLaLu24/pseuds/CoLaLu24
Summary: John wrapped the blanket tighter around his body. A desperate attempt to hide. To hide his tear-stained face and his reddened eyes from the younger man. Although he'd shed all the tears just because of Sherlock.[Please read author's notes!]





	That's All I've Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> So that's my first attempt for a Johnlock fanfiction. To be honest, it's absolutely not what I originally intended to write. I planned a short story without that much plot, but then it turned into something filled with feelings and about 4.000 words long.
> 
> John is really really emotional here and I still don't know whether it suits him or not. So if you think this isn't his "normal" character, you've been warned ;)  
> Besides Mary doesn't exist here and it's not completely canon-compliant as some of the quotes I used aren't post-Reichenbach. But otherwise it wouldn't have worked at all.
> 
> I really had problems to choose a rating, but I finally decided that Mature would be better than Teen, as I think some parts (e. g. sometimes the used language) don't fit into this rating.  
> As always, please note that English isn't my first language. So I'm sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it :)

 

John’s eyes rested on the landscape outside the window. Soft green hills covered with harsh rocks, the shapes of some scattered leafless trees. The whole dreary beauty of the nature rolling past him, but he did not notice it.

 

He loosened his gaze from the surroundings of the car and instead turned his head into the direction of the brown-haired man next to him. Sherlock’s eyes were directed onto the street, focused on their destination.

 

The light that fell through the windows left one half of Sherlock’s face covered in darkness. It outlined the form of his long pale fingers, which were clenched around the steering wheel. His nails were dug into the leather, while he seemed to be lost in his thoughts.

 

John took a deep breath. He still hadn't completely realised that Sherlock was back. Literally back from the dead. How many tears had he shed after the younger man's “funeral”? During how many sleepless nights had he turned from one side to the other, his desperate gasps and cries echoing loud in their flat? In the flat that seemed so empty without the presence of the consulting detective. Without the sound of his voice. Without his brilliant deductions. Without his wonderful play on his violin.

 

John slowly drifted out of his thoughts, thoughts with which he had spent so many minutes. So many _hours, days, months._

He tried to focus on the street in front of them as well. On the case they had to solve. Not on Sherlock. He folded his fingers in his lap, feeling the thin layer of sweat on his palms, an unmistakable sign of the way he reacted in the presence of the younger Holmes.

 

He felt more for Sherlock than he should for a normal friend. He had realised this in the absence of the younger man. He had realised how much Sherlock meant to him.

 

John had developed feelings for the younger man and after his “death” he was abruptly confronted with them. They had seemed to occupy every free space in his brain, replacing everything else. Nothing could have distracted him. Could have made him forget about them.

 

But after Sherlock’s return everything had been different. Their friendship had suffered because of Sherlock's lie. He'd almost destroyed it with it. When the younger man had come back, John hadn’t known what to feel. So many different emotions tried to overwhelm him. He had been desperate and angry and hurt, and he had just wanted to dig his fingers into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and push him onto the floor. To show him which pain, which unbearable pain, he’d endured because of him.

 

But on the other side the ice that had covered his heart seemed to melt when he could watch into Sherlock’s eyes again. The colour of them shining and… _alive_. He _was able_ to feel again. Everything he had felt for Sherlock and successfully suppressed during the time that had passed, during the time when he was sure that Sherlock would never come back, had flooded into his mind again.

 

But it was obvious that his feelings would stay unrequited. Unrequited forever. The consulting detective wouldn’t allow any kind of sentiments in his life. He would just name the reason of his absence as further proof. Besides something like emotions would just block his thoughts, his deductions, as he’d stated it so many times.

 

John unfolded his hands and ran his fingers through his short hair, scratched his nails over his scalp to feel the pain it caused him. But at least this pain could calm him down. Distract him.

 

<> 

 

John furrowed his brows when the hotel owner handed him the scuffed metallic keys over the reception desk. _Two keys with an identical room number._

”Sorry, we are almost booked up. I’ve only one room left for the two of you,“ he said with an apologetic look.

 

”But I guarantee you, that you and your friend,” he pointed his chin into Sherlock’s direction, “Are going to like the room. One of it specials is a huge bathtub. Perfect for a bit of togetherness after an exciting tour through the beautiful landscape,” the man smiled.

 

John sighed. ”We are not a coup… Well, just forget about it,“ he murmured with a dismissive gesture. But deep inside him he felt a sharp sting in his stomach, as he had to negate the assumption of the owner.

 

He turned around and felt his fingers subconsciously clenching around the cold shapes of the keys. _Great. Sharing a room with Sherlock. Sharing a_ bed _with Sherlock, after all that had happened. Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect._

 

John didn’t even dare to imagine sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock. _Sherlock._ That would just start his desires to grow stronger, to become more realistic. But in the end it would leave him even more disappointed when they weren’t fulfilled. _And they surely wouldn’t be fulfilled._

 

Reluctantly John made his way back to the curly-haired detective, who stood on the other end of the room, his fingers flying over the keys on the touchscreen of his mobile.

 

John swallowed when he steadily got closer to the younger Holmes. His eyes trailed over the strands of his messy brown hair, which stood in every direction, leaving him looking ruffled and _adorable_.

How much did he want to move his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, to look deep into his intelligent blue eyes, to get lost in them?

 

Far too fast he’d crossed the room and stood in front of the consulting detective.

“We have to share are room. Two separate ones weren’t available,” the smaller man explained with a shrug.

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t even lift his gaze from the display of his smartphone. _Everything as usual._

 

“Okay then let’s bring our suitcases to the room and then we have to have a look around the area,” Sherlock said when he finally slid his mobile into the inner pocket of his jacket and the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile that he directed to John, whose heart seemed to stand still for a few seconds.

 

<> 

 

It was already dark outside and the moon stood high on the pitch-black sky when they finally came back to their room. They had walked through the landscape for several hours. Walked over wide grassland and over hills full of several thousand-year-old stones.

 

Now that they were back in the hotel, they both felt exhausted and tired. John switched on the ceiling light, instantly feeling dazzled by the brightness. He slid his jacket over his arms and tossed it onto one of the chairs that were placed around a small round table.

 

Sherlock followed him inside their hotel room, quietly closing the door behind him.

“I am going to take a quick shower. You can already go to bed, you look tired,” the consulting detective said.

“Yes. Okay. I think that I’ll shower tomorrow morning. I just want to sleep, you’re right,” the older man murmured and could barely suppress a yawn.

“Fine. Good night then John,” Sherlock answered and walked into the bathroom.

“Good night Sherlock,” John whispered, the door behind the younger man already closed.

 

When he heard the sound of water pattering down onto the floor, John started to undress. He folded his trousers and shirt and placed them into the wardrobe, instead grabbing a t-shirt and shorts for the night.

 

John angrily stared over to the large double bed as if it was its fault that he’d to share it with Sherlock. He turned on the light on the bedside table and lay down onto the soft mattress, enjoying the feeling of the cold pillows on his heated skin.

 

He shifted his body to get comfortable, always paying attention on not to slide on the other half of the bed. Not to destroy the neatly folded blanket. The blanket in which Sherlock would wrap his body after his shower. _His gorgeous body._ John shook his head at the thoughts that came across his mind. They would only harm him if he would allowed them.

He grabbed the book he’d previously placed on his nightstand and started reading. When he came to end of the chapter his eyes stopped at the final sentences.

_“’Each night I put my head to my pillow and I try to tell myself that I’m strong because I’ve gone one more day without telling you how much I love you.’”_

 

A sore laugh escaped John’s mouth, when he read the words on the faded page. _“How suiting,”_ he though almost sarcastically. The black lines started to blur in front of his eyes and turned into washed-out patches.

 

With a thump he laid the book back onto the wooden surface of the bedside table and turned off the light to get lost in the darkness of the room. Only the soft shine of the moon flooded into the suite. It put everything in a dim lit, outlined every contour.

 

From the bathroom the sound of the shower could still be heard. Water hitting the shower tray like heavy rain. Maybe he could fall asleep before Sherlock came out of the room and would climb into the bed as well…

 

After a while the shower was turned off and the whole room remained still. Only occasionally the clattering of something against the porcelain of the sink broke the silence.

 

John shifted uncomfortably on the bed, turning from one side to the other, desperately trying to drift into sleep. _Useless._

He winced when he heard the creaking sound of the hinges of the bathroom door. The shine from the bathroom lit the bed and John shut his eyes tightly. He felt the light on his eyelids for a few seconds, stinging bright through the thin skin, until Sherlock turned off the lamp and shut the door again.

 

The younger man walked through the dark room until he’d reached the bed. The mattress lowered a little bit when he lay down onto it. John heard the rustling of Sherlock’s blanket only mere centimetres away from him and wrapped the white fabric tighter around his body. Wrapped it around him like a cocoon.

He tried to regulate his breathing to relax himself and to make the brown-haired man believe that he really was asleep. _He really wished he were._

 

After another restless thirty minutes, John was sure that Sherlock was asleep now. He could feel the heat that radiated from the man’s body. He could hear his breathing. The younger man’s chest lifted and lowered in a slow steady rhythm.

 

John let his eyes trail along the outline of Sherlock’s dimly lit face. Over his high cheekbones, his slightly parted lips. He could smell the scent of the man’s shampoo that surrounded him like an aura.

 

It would have been impossible for him to live a life without Sherlock. But was this better? Would he ever been able to openly _love_ him? Would he ever been _loved_ by Sherlock?

 

Carefully he lifted one hand and brushed a finger over the younger man’s cheek. Feeling the warm skin of him against his own. A strand of Sherlock’s curls tingled on his forefinger and he shivered at the sensation.

 

Sherlock looked so vulnerable in the pale light of the moon. His sharp features seemed so _soft_. John wanted to push a kiss on the man’s rose lips, to feel them against his own. To forget about everything and everyone. Just get lost in _Sherlock_.

 

He moved his hand back under the blanket and turned around, facing the window. No. He had to stop that. He can’t allow that his thoughts constantly turn this way. He _mustn’t_ allow that. John’s fingers clenched into the sheets, ripped on the soft fabric. He sighed almost inaudibly and tried to ignore the sad feeling that built inside him and that tried to ruthlessly overwhelm him.

 

In the light of the moon a small tear glistened on John’s cheek, when finally the heat of the other’s body covered him and he slowly faded into sleep. On his vision the image of Sherlock who hold his hand and had his indescribably coloured eyes locked with his.

o-------ooo-------ooo------ooo------ _Next Day_ \------ooo------ooo------ooo-----o

 

 

”I don’t have friends,“ he’d said. Directly into his face. Without even the tiniest bit of hesitation. Not thinking about how his harsh words might sound to him. That they might hurt him. That they might hurt him even more after everything that had happened.

 

John lay in the middle of their large hotel bed and pressed a pillow on his face to suppress his cries. His eyes were wet and filled with tears that slowly ran down his reddened cheeks until they soaked into the white fabric. They wetted it with unmistakable marks of his feelings. Desperation. Incomprehension. _Anger._

 

A shiver ran through him and made his limps shaken, when he thought about Sherlock’s words again and again. Had the younger man seen how much he’d hurt him? Normally he could deduce everything, but at human emotions he seemed to have a lack of knowledge.

 

At first he couldn’t, he wouldn't comprehend what Sherlock had said to him. Which words he’d fling in his teeth. In this moment he’d felt as if his heart had been speared by the blade of a knife. A stinging pain that’d seemed to destroy everything.

 

But he’d swallowed down his tears, the things he’d wanted to say in return. And then he’d left. His feet had moved automatically, not controlled by his brain anymore. He’d just wanted to bring as much room as possible between him and the younger man. His hands were clenched into fists, the white knuckles a sharp contrast to his heated skin.

 

_“At first he’s gone and left me in the belief that he’s dead. Dead. And then he says this to me. At least now I know what I mean to him.”_

John angrily tossed the pillow onto the wall on the opposite side of the room. But the sound of the soft fabric against the stone couldn’t calm him down.

 

What did he expect? That Sherlock would confess his love to him? Tell him that he felt the same as he did? A hysteric chuckle escaped his mouth at his useless thoughts. No. But not that he would deny the fact that he was at least his friend. But now it was too late nevertheless. All words were spoken. Impossible to make them unsaid.

 

Sighing he got up from the bed and made his way to the bathroom. He needed a shower. He needed to rub his hands over his skin, to scratch his nails over his body, to wash everything away.

In the shower cabin he turned down the temperature and felt the cold water infiltrating his skin like sharp little blades. Like the blade that still seemed to be stuck in his heart.

 

He leaned his head against the cold tiles and a fresh wave of tears overwhelmed him. Made his legs tremble and left him gasping for air. He had to stop that. Immediately. It all wasn’t worth it. _Sherlock_ wasn’t worth it. He roughly hit his fist against the wall, with every beat harder and harder, until the skin of his knuckles tore open and blood dropped down onto the floor, where it was washed away with the water.

 

<> 

 

When he heard the clicking of the lock, John wrapped his blanket tighter around his body. A desperate attempt to hide. The thing he’d feared the most now inevitably happened. Sherlock was back. It was obvious that he’d waited until he could be more or less sure that the older man would be asleep. But John wasn’t. His thoughts had kept him from getting even fifteen minutes of sleep. Reminding him over and over of the consulting detective.

 

Sherlock steps echoed loud into the small room. Sounded unbearably loud in John’s ears. When the younger man moved into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, John’s body relaxed and he released the fabric of the blanket out of his fists.

 

All his thoughts, all the tears he’d shed made him incredibly tired. Incredibly exhausted. And finally he was able to drift into a dreamless sleep.

 

<> 

 

2:05 am. The red numbers of his alarm clock reflected into John’s eyes and he laid back onto the mattress. At least he’d slept for one hour. At least he was able to forget about everything for one precious hour.

 

His eyes were directed to the ceiling that was covered with dark flickering shadows. If he would turn around, his face would only be centimetres away from Sherlock's. Maybe if he would do so just for a few seconds, to see the man he still loved…

 

Heat radiated from Sherlock’s body. Covered him. Tingled on his cold cheeks. No. He couldn't resist any longer. Finally he turned his head, his hair rustling on the pillow.

 

Sherlock’s face was directed to the middle of the bed. Directed to him. The man’s eyes moved under the lids. From left to right. Up and down. His breathing was unsteady and shallow. _Was he dreaming?_

 

John lifted his hand and slowly brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. He remembered the night before when he’d moved his fingertips over the man’s skin. When everything had been different.

The brown strand curled around his finger, still damp from the previous shower the younger man had had.

 

”Oh Sherlock…“ he whispered. ”Why? Why all of this?” _You must know what you mean to me._

 

“John?“ Sherlock’s husky voice broke through the silence in the room and his blue eyes opened. John shifted when he heard his name out of the man’s mouth. Instantly he moved his hand back under the blanket and turned around. Away from Sherlock. Subconsciously he’d stopped to breathe. The lack of oxygen had already started to blur his vision and inhaled carefully.

 

Every muscle in John’s body tensed when the light on Sherlock’s bedside table was switched on and when he felt Sherlock’s long fingers wrapping around his shoulder. Softly he pulled the older man around so that he had to face him. The consulting detective swallowed at the sight in front of him. John’s cheeks glistened wet, his eyes were tear-stained and... dark. The opposite of his normally sparkling eyes. _But had they ever showed this again after he’d come back?_

 

”Oh John…“ he sighed and brushed the tips of his fingers through the man’s hair. But John stiffened and roughly grabbed his wrist to pull his hand away. The brown-haired man shivered. It was as if ice would run through his veins instead of blood.

 

”I didn’t want to hurt you… To hurt you again… I just… I don’t know,“ he whispered.

”Oh but that’s something in which you are rather good. Returning from the dead like nothing had happened at all and then telling me I mean nothing to you. Well, why did you even come back to me then? It would have been helpful if you had used your brilliant brain for that,“ the older man snort dismissively. But the pain in his voice was there nevertheless.

 

”Maybe before you said all that. Because you mean so much to me…“

John’s sentences were barely audible, as his voice had become more and more quiet with every word.

 

”I’ve known that, John,“ the younger man answered.

John turned his eyes away. Of course he’d known it. It was Sherlock Holmes. You can’t trick a man like Sherlock fucking Holmes. But when he’d known all the time what John had felt for him, why did he say something like this to him? Why did he willingly hurt him so much? All his tears seemed to be wiped away. To be replaced by anger that boiled deep inside him.

 

”Sherlock, if you just want to make fun of me, to make fun of my feelings, than please stop it, all right? Then just shut the fuck off okay?!“ he spat, his eyes dark and dangerous. Maybe he’d turned into a more sentimental person after he’d come back from the war. After Sherlock’s “death”. He’d turned into that inevitably. But he was definitely still able to clearly state his opinion.

 

”You don’t mean nothing to me. When I saw you when I came back to London I was… confused… You always were the one I could rely on. The person who endured my experiments. Who endured me when I am… well when I was who I was. John Watson you are the most important person in my life. But for someone like me it’s hard to say something like that. You know, I’ve never been very good with humans,“ he said, a crooked smile curling around the corners of his mouth.

 

”I have no friends. That’s right. But I have you, John Watson. You are far more for me than a friend. It took me long to accept this. To comprehend this. I’ve never allowed feelings in my life. I’ve always suppressed them. Alone was all I’ve had and it protected me…“

 

John swallowed. It felt like Sherlock had removed the blade from his heart with every honest word. It felt as if these _few words_ had put him together again. Heat spread inside him. Rushed through every little vein in his body. Filled him completely.

 

“I know that I’ve should have confessed that to you earlier. But when I realised that our relationship had changed after I came back I was… overstrained. I saw how you had started to feel. When I was forced to stay away from everybody my thoughts had circled around you so many times. And I had always felt something I hadn’t felt before, when I thought that I had left you unknowingly behind. In the belief that I’m dead.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his messy curls.

“That’s when I realised that you mean more to me. More than I would have ever admitted.”

 

John swallowed and let Sherlock’s confession sink in. To comprehend that the younger man had said what he’d desperately wanted to hear for so long. And he’d meant it. Every word. Every syllable was filled with honesty.

 

“You know that it means a lot for me that _you_ say all this so openheartedly. _You_ of all people. Even if it took a quite a while…” John finally said and the anger he’d felt slowly faded away. Instead a shy smile appeared on his face. A smile that lit his eyes, his whole appearance.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help himself and the corners of his mouth turned into a smile as well. He pulled the older man in his arms, wrapped them around him, covered him completely. John buried his face in the younger man’s brown curls and deeply inhaled his scent. Deeply inhaled _Sherlock._ Got lost in him, like he’d imagined it so many times.

 

John felt Sherlock’s long fingers moving up and down his spine. Felt his fingertips through the fabric of his t-shirt. The older man lifted his head and looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes, into his dark pupils that seemed to suck him into them until he would forget about everything else.

 

Carefully, like a question he brushed his lips over Sherlock’s. Barely touching them. The younger man cupped his face with his warm hands and softly pressed his mouth onto John’s again. Pulled the smaller man to his chest, to his fast beating heart.

 

John moved his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip. The rose skin soft and warm. When their tongues met John felt sparks of electricity shooting through his body. The feeling of their tongues circling around each other was overwhelming. One of the most intimate things he had ever felt.

 

John’s own heart pounded heavily in his chest and he carefully separated their lips. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” John whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
